


You're my playground love

by feyrelay



Series: DIEU (Daddy Issues Extended Universe) [9]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Bullying, Collars, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't copy to another site, Electrocution, Established Relationship, Fake Science, M/M, Moodboards, POV Alternating, Praise Kink, Speech Disorders, Verbal Humiliation, Watersports, Уточнять у автора
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-10 19:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18414680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: Flash has been bullying Peter over every little thing he says at college.Tony, as usual, over-engineers the solution.[Fills my Tony Stark bingo square T4: "Kink: Collars" in Chapter 1, and S2: "Whump" in Chapter 2.]***I have never, will never, allow any reposting or translations of my works without my permission. All of my works will and shall only be hosted on my personal accounts on AO3 (feyrelay), Pillowfort (feyrelay).I no longer have a Tumblr.I do not have a Twitter account.I do not have a Wattpad account.Please Do Not Repost My Fics ANYWHERE, including but not limited to Goodreads, Ficbook.net, or Fanfics.me. If you would like to translate a work of mine or host a translation you may contact me to ASK about that, at feyrelayfiction@gmail.com. Уточнять у автора.





	1. Tony POV

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SbiderSlut (BlackCoffeeCat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCoffeeCat/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has a playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/1urx036e5iqb0ioukr2bj8yih/playlist/7rcmTRvUVBBDIfFLZm5FpM?si=yZHRO53CTmS5EIkN3hM_xw

Tony and Peter have been dating for a couple of years but Peter still, at the age of twenty-two, has insecurities about his talkative, enthusiastic personality. Tony tries not to take it personally, even though _they are the same_ and _everyone knows it_.

Personally, Tony blames Flash and his penchant for mocking Peter over every little thing, but regardless of how the hang-up started for Peter, Tony intends to deal with it.

He remembers those boys from school, the ones who were so afraid of being laughed at that the only apparent solution was to laugh at others first.

(He remembers because, on occasion, he was one.)

He hates to admit that, because he sees what it’s done to the pure, strong light of Peter’s personality, to have to try and shine through the grime and moss papered ‘round by bottom-feeders like Flash & Friends, but.

When Tony got sober in 2001, he swore he’d be honest with himself even when he couldn’t be honest with others. Afghanistan had only thrown that promise into ever-sharper relief. He can admit things now, things that sound less like ‘businessman’ and more like ‘war profiteer’.

Less like ‘popular’ and more like ‘bully’.

And, look, he knows Peter likes it when he’s a bully in bed (“goes all Cardi B on my ass,” Peter says lazily into the phone, giggling with Ned), but this is different.

For one thing, Peter better not be sucking Flash’s cock on the regular.

Although, Tony knows that being on his knees and obeying actually makes Peter feel _stronger_ and _more_ confident. They’d talked about it ad nauseam, that Peter likes feeling stretched to the breaking point (like on the ferry), and steamrolled over (like their conversation after), and then built back up with love and sweetness and praise (because that’s the part Tony left out, that time).

Slowly, they’ve come to an understanding. Peter needs instructions that are specific and achievable, and that gain gradually in difficulty, followed by praise. Tony needs enthusiastic consent and no lip or backtalk out of Peter’s slut mouth once that’s been given.

They’ve discussed all kinds of other things, but the truth is that Tony feels less kinky than he’s ever felt. He doesn’t _need_ that, with Peter. He’s a treasure all on his own, vanilla, without all the trimmings.

It makes dealing with little things like a hang-up here and there, things that would have annoyed Tony with past lovers, things that would have made him spit venomous, awful truths like, ‘I’m not responsible for your emotions’... well. With Peter, around Peter, _for_ Peter, they’re not such a big deal.

\---

Peter has a bad night one night and Tony holds him close as Peter repeats the awful words the self-hating side of his brain is feeding him. This includes phrases like ‘shut the fuck up’, ‘stupid nerd’, ‘awkward baby’, ‘dumb slut’, ‘word vomit’ and so on and so on.

“How could someone as sexy and suave as you want someone like me,” Peter asks pitifully, as Tony rubs his back. He tries not to laugh at the poor kid, even though if it were _anyone_ else, he would be preening and telling them they were fishing for compliments.

“I want you all the time, baby, no matter what your brain says,” Tony returns, instead.

Peter pulls away, minutely, like he doesn’t _want_ to believe him. It’s like it would hurt too much to do so, and Tony aches for him. He presses closer, like he can press a pattern of belief right through Peter’s thin sleep shirt, with his own body.

And all it does is make it worse, because he should really know better. He should know that kindness pricks at Peter’s skin when he gets like this, that it turns the way a pleasant, fireside warmth turns from glowing to glowering.

Peter huffs, shifts away.

Tony sits up, turns on a light, and definitely does _not_ look at the time.

“Do you need me to be mean?”

Peter sips breaths, appearing thirsty, but doesn’t answer.

He tries again. “Do you need me to be not-nice?”

“Mmmmm,” Peter hums. “Maybe?”

 _Good enough for 3am_ , Tony thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead, he strips -- quick and efficient and no wasted motion -- and then lays back. “Not good enough,” he lies, “... yes or no?”

Peter tells him ‘yes’ with his tongue only. His voice is not needed.

In the morning, body spent, his mind brightens. Tony has an idea.

\---

The thing is, Tony’s a fixer. Tony’s a maker.

His two main weaknesses are pretty, young things and over-engineered gadgets, and everyone knows it.

It takes a day or so for him to brush up on his voice box anatomy and a further week or so to thoroughly research and beta test well enough that he’s sure Peter won’t be hurt, super-healing or no. He spends that week pampering Peter and trying to bring him back into a good headspace, and a good self-care routine.

He also takes his time establishing a nonverbal safeword with Peter, to be used if they get into a scene where Peter can’t talk. It’s not the most grueling preparation he’s ever done. It’s not a hardship.

In the end, they settle on the signal: three taps in quick succession.

They’ll need that, for this.

In the meantime, Tony jury-rigs a shock collar for puppies to a sensor and makes it more sophisticated. He codes an entire neural network and sets it loose on every bit of recorded data he has re: Peter’s speech patterns. It _learns_.

Now, it will know exactly how to set the voltage so that Peter maintains a steady level of helplessness over any attempt to express himself while wearing the collar. It’s much better this way. The artificial intelligence of the device will react to what it believes Peter is about to say rather than decibel input and the presence of vibration like it would for a dog.

It’s still gonna make his puppy yelp, though.

\---

He makes sure they talk about it one more time.

“Now, you know it’ll hurt, right? But only if you’re very headstrong. The shock comes if you yell or cry or whine. Otherwise it’ll be a low-level thrum, a steady flow of current to interrupt the workings of that pretty throat. You shouldn’t really feel it.”

“Did you test it?” Peter asks, and Tony just Looks at him. “Right,” Peter says quickly.

“Of course I tested it,” Tony says sternly. ( _Don’t ask if I did it to myself_ , he thinks.)

“Did you try it on yourself?”

(Fuck.)

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he gives as a non-answer.

Peter stares, eyes narrowing after a moment. “I asked you a question. Maybe it’s my fault for being vague, though. To be clear: did you put this collar on yourself while I was in class, turn the electricity up to test the levels, feel it in your groin, and come all over the lab table?”

Tony hums, mimicking Peter from the other night. “Objection! I don’t want to answer that. Also, damn, what a leading question.”

“Tony, ‘I don’t want to answer that’ isn’t a real objection.”

“Good thing, because I’m not a real lawyer.”

\---

When the collar is ready, Tony slinks up behind Peter on a night when they don’t have anything else going on and slips it around Peter’s vulnerable neck. He settles the jammer right over where Peter’s vocal folds should be.

They both know that if Peter had wanted to stop him, he’d have been stopped. Even Natasha can’t sneak up on Peter, these days.

“I-ddd, buh want can’t- Tony- come onaksd sksks,” Peter stutters.

Tony claps his hands together and beams. (It works perfectly.)

"Oh, you want Daddy to fuck your face, is that what you’re saying? Okay, sweetheart.”

Peter gives him this look that says, _You’re an Evil Bastard_ and _I love you_ in equal measure, which is pretty much a shoe-in for title of their joint autobiography, one day. Peter tries to say something that must have been particularly loud or vehement, because Tony _sees_ the blue arc of electricity when it reaches out to choke Peter.

It makes Tony’s semi chub up further in his pants and, okay, his mouth is a little dry, a little sick.

Peter whines at the shock, which sets the collar off to the jump setting again, a delicious cycle, and Tony knows he’s blurting pre-come. He tells Peter as much, wanting his love to know what kind of effect he has.

Peter stumbles forward, grasping at Tony’s shoulders and pressing their chests together as he tries to talk with his eyes.

“Oh, baby, look. You’re so sweet. Here, rub on my thigh, good boy. Don’t worry about the shock transferring, it’s not that strong secondhand, especially through jeans. You probably ought to keep your hands to yourself, though, until you get used to being quiet... can you do that?”

“Ysss-Prrnt, asdn. Fuckautaer-” Peter tries, but Tony shushes him.

“S’okay, honey, I know what you mean to say. I got you. Come on,” Tony breathes, helping Peter hitch desperately against his leg, which he knows Peter hates as much as he loves.

Peter unbuttons his flannel, the one he always steals from Tony, and leaves it hanging open even as he rocks, head thrown back to make the collar gleam in the light, against Tony’s thick denim.

“Fuck, Peter, you take everything so well. So strong, and healthy, and brave. I used to always say I’d cut the live wire, but god. If it’s you laying over it, skin jumping like this, I think I’d just watch. Step over you, maybe, and kill the power when I’m good and finished.”

Peter folds his hands behind his head with a gurgle, clearly trying so hard to be good and not touch. There’s an incredible amount of heat soaking into Tony’s quad from Peter’s hot, frictioning little cock. It makes Tony feel like bending the rules.

He reaches out for the white crewneck tee that Peter’s got on under the flannel. It’s modest, pure, and in the way. Tony shoves the fabric high.

“Show me your body, baby. Get those tits out.”

He plays with Peter’s tight nipples, thumbs thrumming back and forth like he’s playing pinball with him. Peter manages himself admirably, breathing through his nose like an injured horse.

Tony leans back heavily, spine sitting on the counter as he takes great handfuls of Peter’s ass in his own jeans -- tighter, slimmer, same color -- and draws him along in a sliding grind.

“Can you come like this, I wonder? With me rubbing us together like we’re two boy scouts trying to start a fire?”

Peter shakes his head ‘no’, and a string of drool slings out with the motion. Peter closes his eyes, embarrassed, but Tony _thrills._ It’s all he can do to get his fly down and his cock out fast enough.

Then, he tugs Peter a hair forward by his bottom lip, and lets a pool of warm saliva bungee down to the tip of his own cock. Tony fits his forehead close to Peter’s and hooks over one of his little baby teeth with a thumbnail and holds the boy open at the slow-dripping lips, the same way he would with a woman if he wanted to lick her pussy and it’s a lot to take, a lot to _do_ , to hold Peter still when he’s shivering and making little, snatched sounds out of his soft, cunt-pink mouth like-

Peter garbles, shy and embarrassed to be drooling, Tony’s sure. Peter gets like that, about spit and piss and come, things that don’t bother Tony anymore. Drugs will do that for you, make you shameless about your body and its needs, even after you’re off them.

Tony lets go of Peter and allows him to step back, out of Tony’s orbit. Tony takes the opportunity to smear the makeshift lube Peter’s gifted him with, up and down, slow. Peter watches, sucking his puffy lower lip into his mouth.

Tony thinks, _Better sit down before I fall down_.

He takes a seat in a throne-like armchair, something expensive that he intends to make Peter guiltily come all over, later. He settles on his bare ass and strips his jeans down and off to give Peter plenty of room, then motions him over. Tony unbuttons his dress shirt because he knows Peter likes to feel his belly and chest, that it reminds him Tony is solid and alive.

Peter comes to him on his knees, which makes his cock twitch in mid-air, but Tony pulls him up for some kisses first. “Hey, pretty. I’m gonna make good on my earlier threat and fuck that slick little mouth, okay? If that’s still what you want?”

Peter nods into another breathy kiss, a sweet smile speaking for him. He even licks into Tony’s mouth and sucks a little at his tongue which he _never_ does. They’re not huge on tongue stuff, when there are so many other better uses for that particular muscle.

That’s when Tony feels the need to apologize.

“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t think of how hard it would be to not be able to talk and have that current in your throat and not have anything to fill up your mouth. No wonder you’re spilling drool, huh?”

Peter wipes at his chin impishly, and tries to talk. “D-d-daad ee cannast asdn, plssz?”

He smiles at Peter’s attempts and lets him wrap his hand around Tony’s still-slick cock between them, before he grips at Peter’s jaw and chin and draws him in once again. He kisses Peter with all the love he can muster, which feels near-infinite. “You can have whatever you want. Just let me know if you want it mean or nice. You know the signal if it gets to be too much, right?”

Peter nods and slips back down off Tony’s lap to his knees. He catches Tony’s eye and presses a sweet, tiny kiss to Tony’s left thigh. _Nice_ , Tony interprets.

On his right thigh, Peter claws his nails in long lines, as his mouth twists into a little smirk. _Smart boy_.

“Got it, right for naughty, left for nice, three taps for stop. Now, you gonna blow me or what?”

Peter ruffles and goes indignant-adorable, but it doesn’t stop him from licking a hot stripe up Tony’s cock. He sucks at the tip a bit, too, tonguing around the edge and gently signaling that he wants Tony to sit a bit more forward.

Tony scoots to the edge of his chair, petting through Peter’s hair as he goes.

Peter sneaks his hands round to Tony’s spine to urge him forward into Peter’s mouth and Tony’s last two brain cells finally stop fucking around and remind him he promised his baby a throat-fucking.

(Well, then.)

“Now, honey, you know you gotta keep those moans and groans to yourself, or Daddy will get shocked, too? Can you do it? I believe you can.”

Peter nods a little nod, which pushes the sensitive head of Tony’s cock into his soft palate, and Tony’s the one who groans.

Tony reaches forward and threads the fingers of one hand through the little baby curls at the nape of Peter’s neck, to get a good hold. The other hand he uses to hold Peter’s face and feel the hot, fussy blush rising through his skin as Tony pushes into his throat.

Peter’s breathing like he’s bleeding somewhere, but Tony knows that’s just how he gets when he’s worked up and worked over like this. He looks forward to making it worse.

He waits for the dangerous little flutter against his length and then pulls out to let Peter gasp.

Then Tony does the whole thing again. And again.

It’s on the third thrust that he slides his fingers a bit too far down the back of Peter’s scalp and catches a few fingertips under the edge of the collar.

It must pull, because Peter makes a whining sound that sends a corresponding electric jolt both through Tony’s fingertips and up his cock to settle in his balls and _holy shit_ -

“Peter. Peter. You’re okay? Because I am _so_ okay,” he murmurs, a little faint. Tony pulls out of Peter’s mouth with a little _pop_ and makes sure he has eye contact to add, “Please, make all the noise you want. Forget everything I said.”

Peter, overcome, starts laughing. Loud.

It sets the collar all the way off and Tony gets to watch as Peter starts hiccuping and tremoring and it  _shouldn’t_ be hot, but.

Fuck it.

It really, really is doing something for him, and Tony reaches out to steady his boy. He feels it in Peter’s pecs, even, where the current is jumping and now Peter is laughing at his _own damn self_ and Tony’s laughing at them both and instead of trying to draw Peter back up to his cock, he pushes him down instead.

They both end up on the carpet, and Tony makes sure to cover Peter’s twitching body with his own. He kisses at the column of Peter’s throat, just above the collar, warning, “Don’t try to talk, you’re gonna pass out, you enormous goof.”

Because Peter is a better lay than he is a listener, he says, “Grrarpt, f- _fuck, Tony_ -ssksks.”

And that just means Tony has to take a break, to punish him.


	2. Tony POV

What Tony decides on ends up punishing them both, but that’s not unusual. He thinks about saying, _This is gonna hurt me as much as it hurts you_ , but he doesn’t.

It goes like this:

Once Peter has calmed, Tony settles back into his armchair and informs Peter that, “Since you seem to be so vocal and so uncaring about whether or not you get shocked, I’m gonna be kind and give you what you want.”

Peter looks up at him from the floor, like a confused puppy, and it’s just what Tony wanted.

“Now, come here and open your mouth.”

And Peter does it, bless his slut heart.

Tony gets them back to basics and has Peter give him kitten licks all over to get things going again, before he slides home into Peter’s mouth.

“Now,” he explains, “... a lack of control on your part should not necessitate accomodation on my end, isn’t that right, pet?”

He knows Peter’s going to nod, rubbing his tongue and the softest parts of his mouth inadvertently along Tony’s length. He planned it that way. “Good, we understand each other.”

Tony smooths some sweat off Peter’s forehead tenderly, waiting to see if the kid will whimper or not, if he waits.

No dice, _good boy_ , so,”You’re officially not allowed to move anymore. No tonguing at me, you hungry thing, and no rubbing off against my leg like a little pup. And, I’m sure you know that I’m not leaving your throat before I’ve come down it, so…”

 _Ah_ , Tony thinks as the shock climbs his nerves, _there’s that whimper._

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, “... now you’ve got it. And, because this is all your fault, kid, I’m not doing the work for you either. I’m not thrusting just so you can feel good about getting me off. I’ll save my strength for what I’ve got planned for you later,” another shock that tingles straight to his groin, “ _ah_ , and- um. Well, you’ll figure it out, Peter; you’re a smart boy.”

Tony waits for the protests, or for Peter to huff indignantly, but when he looks down at his lover, he finds Peter looking enthused, if the shininess of his eyes is anything to go by. He cheats a little, inching forward that last little bit on the next breath, looking up at Tony through his lashes to see if he’ll be called on it.

When he’s not, when he’s met with nothing but a bitten lip from Tony and a little smile, Peter obligingly coughs.

He does it a lot louder than he normally would, and the flutter of it around the head of Tony’s cock is _nothing_ compared to the electricity the collar unleashes.

Tony chokes a little, hoping he’s not bit off more than he can chew, but he’s also flashing back to the, frankly, _spectacular_ mess he’d made in the lab during his solo beta test of the collar. He knows he can take it.

Peter appears to be watching his reaction, and Tony has the presence of mind to think, _oh no, fuck, he’s got that look_ , before the little _jerk_ starts humming a rhythmic sort of nonsense song-

 _Fuck, fuck fuck, fuckity_ -

And from then on it’s a bit like having a vibrator pressed up against the very tip of his cock, but _better_ because there’s nothing to center the sensation, nothing to ground it-

The noises Peter’s making to ensure the collar continues its devious work, _fuck_ -

He’s not even moving, not even really blowing him, neither of them are-

Tony. He. He reaches out to steady himself, petting at Peter’s soft hair and scritching along the boy’s sensitive scalp like he knows Peter likes. It elicits a louder noise than the ones Peter’s been relying on, and the shocks kick up a notch.

There’s something unbearably erotic about knowing that Peter is filtering this for him, using his own body as a proxy for Tony’s pleasure and _containing_ the multitudes before they can rain down on Tony’s frayed-wire nerves.

He can’t help a single thrust to get deeper, closer, further, faster, _more_ any way he can; Peter doesn’t even protest, he’s so good that Tony _has_ to tell him as much-

“Sorry, sorry, but I know you can take it. Fuck, I’m. I’m not sorry, I lied, fuck. You’re so good, I. Keep humming, whining, whatever you like, baby. Keep going-”

Peter’s breathing through his nose, little wrecked sounds, but if Tony’s honest with himself, he’s a bad, _bad_ man because he doesn’t care _at all_. He’s his worst self in the face of such jolting pleasure, so unexpected.

If anyone had asked him whether or not he’d like his dick electrocuted today, he’d have laughed in that person’s face, but.

 _Never say never_ , he thinks, a little undone.

He pets over Peter’s hair as his love keeps whining for him, keeps the lights on with his own stubbornness, his _literal_ eagerness to please Tony, and it’s too much.

Tony knows he’s about to be well past salvaging in a minute, so he forces himself to take the time to check on Peter, to curl a hand just below Peter’s jaw as he sits forward (accidentally-on purpose pushing his cock deeper into Peter’s wet mouth, fuck), and checks the carotid artery.

Peter’s pulse is rabbiting, but not dangerously so. His eyes are clear and he’s still humming a vaguely recognizable tune, so Tony knows he’s okay. Still, Tony metabolizes the pressure in his groin and the heat in his belly, quick and purposeful and near-impossible like walking between raindrops, to draw a question mark on the back of Peter’s hand where it rests against Tony’s quad. ( _You okay?_ )

Peter breaks the rules again to curl his tongue just so around Tony’s length, so he figures that means ‘yes'.

“Doing so good, honey. So proud of you, keeping daddy’s cock warm for him like this,” Tony manages, and watches Peter’s eyelashes flutter. His hips hitch mindlessly to the same rhythm.

Peter, who ( _shockingly_ ) is actually neither that submissive nor that good at following instructions he thinks are shit, takes matters into his own hands and jolts himself forward until he’s practically concussing himself on Tony’s pubic bone, gagging until his throat flutters dangerously and swallowing like it’s all he knows how to do-

It sets up a horrid cough that Tony will massage away later, but the lightning the collar doles out-

 _Christ_ , Tony thinks and moans at the same time, and Peter answers him until they’re twinning yet again, electricity eating up Peter’s sounds like so much fuel-

Tony gives up on his stone-faced mask and thrusts against the roof of Peter’s mouth, and further back, and and and-

Peter moans his assent in little half-words that spark up Tony’s spine; the _feedback loop_ of it all is fucking criminal-

He doesn’t have enough brain left to feel bad about coming like a firehose (except hot, hot, _hot_ ) down the back of Peter’s delicate throat. He barely has enough presence of mind to not fucking pass out in his own goddamned living room.

Tony collapses back, hand covering his eyes like he’s some kind of fucking Southern belle with the vapors. His eyes sting with sweat, but Peter’s still sucking at him gently, silent as a churchmouse to avoid overstimulation.

Tony grabs for Peter’s face, cradling it even as Peter makes a series of useless sounds before clambering into his lap, making sure Tony’s hand brushes the collar on its way down Peter’s neck to his back.

Tony breathes at the ceiling, but does eventually remember to take the damned thing off Peter, who immediately kisses him with gratitude. _The little punk_ , Tony thinks, fond, tasting himself.

“Ah, thank you, thank you,” Peter huffs as he sways away, voice breaking over the strain of what he’s put it through, and barely above a whisper.

Tony can’t help but chuckle at that, his mirth a pale shadow of the booming laughter from earlier.

“No, sweetheart. Thank _you_.”

\---

The collar itself gets put away in The Sin Bin _,_ as Peter calls it. It’s full of other gadgets Tony’s whipped up, not all of them originally intended to be kinky, but all of them well-loved.

Peter has a good couple of weeks, gives a presentation in his class that gets the professor talking about recommending him for a TA position next year, and generally keeps it together even though Tony’s underwater with all the work he owes SI before the quarter is over.

Tony, for his part, tries not to mess that up for Peter by dragging him down into Tony’s bullshit. He sleeps when it’s bedtime, drinks water when Friday reminds him, and eats dinner with Peter eight whole times over a fortnight.

He finishes three major projects that he’d been stuck on, and deems that enough. In between revolutionizing the agricultural, transportation, and communication sectors, Tony fiddles with the collar.

It’s soothing, frivolous, something to not-focus on.

Just touching the thing gets him hard in his sweatpants, but that’s neither here nor there.

(But, oh, he wonders… _Would Peter wear it again? Should I-)_

But they don’t talk about it. Peter’s good; he doesn’t need this.

Tony spends his off-day sort of zoned out. Peter’s visiting with May; they’ve gone to a fundraiser for Midtown alumni and family. May, ever the charitably-minded, has finally come around to the idea of her nephew carrying around a checkbook linked to his and Tony’s joint account. It comes in handy for events like the one they’re attending.

Tony tells Desiré to go home early and does his own ironing for some godforsaken reason, mindlessly watching a rerun of _Hannibal_ while he irons himself a grilled cheese sandwich like Ana used to make. It makes a funny sort of sense in his head: watch a narcissist prepare a gourmet meal flawlessly in full-flash cinematography, while another narcissist makes ironing board grilled cheese at home, alone, and wonders if he’s better, or worse, than TV’s favorite cannibal.

(He should have gone to the event.)

So Tony does what he does best, which is break shit and then fix it. He grabs a water bottle because Peter would want him to, the little priss, but then he holes up in the lab and takes the voice jammer collar apart.

He builds it back up, better this time, and goes through two more water bottles and four more hours.

Now the collar won’t be as sensitive to noise, and instead will just do the basic interruptor current at a constant, low level. The actual shocks will be controlled by a little remote, and Tony feels the tension leave his shoulders at the thought. He did good. He fixed it. It’s fixed.

(It wasn’t broken.)

Just as he’s letting out the most overdue piss of his life, Tony hears the door. Peter’s home, which is _wonderful_ -

_SLAM!_

Okay, well. Maybe not _so_ wonderful, then? “Hey, babe! In the bathroom. You okay?” he calls.

Peter opens the door and leans in the frame (which, _rude_ ), watching as he tears his tie off with a little _whick_ that slithers. “No. Flash was being a _nightmare_. I’m so embarrassed over it, and-”

“Okay, alright, let me get done here, I’ll just be a minute-”

“Whatever, I’m going to bed anyway.”

“-and then we… can… oh. Okay,” Tony finishes lamely, shaking himself and zipping up before washing his hands.

By the time he’s done with that, Peter’s already down the hall to their room.

Tony tries a playful tack, “Run, spiderling, run. Trying to get away?”

Peter’s in front of the mirror, carefully unbuttoning his shirt and trousers. His shoes are already kicked under the bed, which Tony knows Peter knows he hates. He shrugs, “No, sorry, I’m. I’m just tired and mad. How was your day?”

Tony sighs, but he’s grateful for the attempt all the same. “Not great, to be honest. I got some work done, but it was a weird one.”

Peter hums noncommittally, and Tony sees the moment the last ounce of fight goes out of him, from the doorway. He steps out of his suit pants and then just stands there, drooping. His shirt still hangs from his shoulders.

“Peter,” Tony tries, careful. “I. I want you to tell me if you’re okay, but. Just, fair warning, I’m not sure I have the emotional capital, myself, to deal with Flash. Not even secondhand. Do you want me to leave you alone to call MJ or May or Ned? Someone who might understand better?”

He’s shocked at the speed with which Peter whirls around. “What?”

Tony, jarred by the shift, echoes. “What, what?”

“You… fuck! I,” Peter stutter-starts, exasperated. “Christ, he was right.”

Tony takes a step into the room, alarmed. “Who? Flash? What did the village idiot say this time?”

Peter scrubs a rough hand through his hair, flakes of the product Tony had helped him with earlier falling to rest on his shirt. “He said you sent me with your money because you were tired of me and my incessant talking, my neediness. He said… that’s why you weren’t there yourself.”

Peter’s already shaking his head, stepping away from the discarded trousers on the floor, belt still caught fast in its loops. Tony makes a sound that he’s sure Peter doesn’t even register. He’s already spiralling, and Tony is just. Tired.

“Look, that’s not... I’m sorry, okay, it’s been a rough one for both of us. I should have gone with you, but I thought you liked having some time just you and May, I-”

Peter interrupts to say, “No, it’s not you, it’s me-”

Which Tony _hates_ because it’s a break-up line, and he feels forced to point out that, “No, it’s neither of us, it’s _Flash_ . If you would just _stand up to him_ -”

“I can’t! You know that. It’s _your fucking fault,_ too, because you’re the one who wants me to keep my identity a secret. If I punched him, I’m _pretty_ sure he’d figure it out, well, in a flash, if you-”

Tony feels his expression happen _to_ him, rather than because of him, rather than because of a conscious choice to emote. It takes him a second to think past his upset because. It is. Upsetting, that is. It’s upsetting.

He counts to ten, silently. Peter has the good grace to hide his face as he picks his clothes up off the floor, unthreading his belt before he heads to their ensuite to toss the trousers in the laundry.

Tony stops him before he gets that far. “Oh, no. No, no. Leave the belt.”

And, god, the look on Peter’s face at that. Tony’s not gonna hit him with it, not when he’s this frustrated. But Peter doesn’t have to know that just yet.

Peter _does_ know better, though, and Tony can tell -- as the younger man’s mouth twists -- that he’s about to say what Tony’s thinking.

“You wouldn’t-”

“Peter, if I wanted your opinion, I’d give it to you first.”

Peter shuts up.

It’s good of him, but Tony has a better idea, and he leaves Peter standing there, holding his pants, to go and get it.

He thinks about what he wants to say as he rummages in his fiddle-drawer for the collar and remote he’d completed. It’s not too hard to find -- it’s right on top, actually -- but Tony takes a moment for himself anyway.

When he comes out of the lab, Peter’s right there, looking anxious.

(His little shadow, stuck on with soap.)

“Go back to the bedroom,” he says, as gently as is warranted.

“But-”

“Bedroom. Now. Please,” Tony insists.

He frog-marches Peter back to their bedroom, and tosses the collar on the bed after him, though he doesn’t enter the room (and he palms the remote). Peter, appearing puzzled, turns around to try and figure out what will happen, now.

Tony goes and gets a glass of water, lets it fill him up and trickle through all the cracks in his foundation. He comes back sipping on it and Peter, good boy, is already seated on the edge of their bed with the collar in his hands.

“I’m really sorry, and I _know_ it’s not really your fault,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“Listen, I knew you weren’t really with it when I left; I should have stayed home-”

Tony ticks that one off on his first finger. “Wrong.”

Peter blows out a breath. “Okay, but I should have come back earlier, maybe?”

Tony hums, letting himself smile a little. Second finger. “Wro-ong. Want another guess?”

Peter shakes his head, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes afterward, and Tony drops the domineering act for just a moment to sit down next to (and slightly behind) him, leaning into the younger man’s shoulder.

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to stress. I’m gonna take it out on your ass, anyway, so don’t worry about it,” he jokes softly. Peter’s hiccuping little laugh is worth it.

Peter doesn’t say anything else, so Tony spends a stretched moment grasping and grinding away at the knots in Peter’s neck before he speaks again.

“Listen up, pup. This is how it’s gonna go. I’m not thermonuclear mad like I was, a bit ago. It’s more of a gentle hum. You seem properly shamed, but you could always be _more_ properly shamed, am I right?”

Peter favors him with a much brighter laugh ( _mission accomplished_ ), at that, and turns a little to sit more fully on the bed and face him, still in his boxer-briefs and undone shirt. He nods.

“Right. Okay, so. What you did wrong was, you allowed Flash and his fucking _nonsense_ into our relationship. And you pushed me even when I told you I didn’t have it in me. And then you blamed me for something just because you didn’t want to consider my perspective. So uncool, ya got me?”

“Yeah, I got you, I guess? What are you gonna do?”

“Christ, don’t look so scared. I don’t _have_ to do anything. We can hit ‘pause’ and go to bed, Pete. _Lordy_. Relax about it.”

Tony waits Peter out on this one, but picks up the collar to smooth fingers over the leather holding it all together, just to remind Peter of what’s on the table.

“No. I, uh. I don’t want us to go to bed frustrated. I wanna get it all out…” Peter starts, uncertain.

“And?” Tony prompts, sensing a second clause to the sentence.

“Um, am I gonna get to come? At some point?” Peter asks, voice a little small.

Tony tries not to laugh at him, aware that that would make things worse. He does, however, pretend to think it over. “Hmmm, that depends, how big a check did you write Midtown?”

Peter’s eyes go wide and young and it shamefully thickens Tony’s cock in his own boxer-briefs. He shifts a little, wondering whether Peter will cry if he says he can’t come. ( _Fucking twisted._ )

“Uh, I’d say they’re… pretty well-funded,” Peter murmurs. He’s very still as he says it, then rallies at the last second. “But, like. That’s what you wanted, right? I just pretended I was you.”

Ohhhh. _Good boy_. “Hmmm. So you didn’t let your fear of Flash put a chokehold on your do-gooder attitude? Didn’t let the unspoken ‘biggest donor’ award go to some other power couple?”

“Uh, no sir.”

Tony kisses him.

He physically feels the relief pour over Peter. _You did alright. That’ll do,_ he thinks, privately. He holds Peter’s mouth open with a thumb and breathes into him, then follows with his tongue just to see if he can get Peter to flinch.

He can.

 _So shy_ , he thinks, a little meanly. He’s truly not mad anymore, but his dander is still up, in a sense. They’re gonna have fun.

He pulls back and lets Peter come for him, instead, which he does with haste. Tony doesn’t stop him, just lets himself be kissed as he situates the collar in his hands, and then… at the right moment.

He puts it around Peter’s neck.

“You fu-ksksakes,” Peter tries, caught off-guard.

Tony smiles at him, pats him on the cheek, presses a tiny little kiss to the corner of his mouth like punctuation on a particularly well-formed sentence.

(Yep, they’re gonna have fun.)

\---

Five minutes later, Tony has him over his knees.

Peter’s shirt has been drawn down and the sleeves tied ‘round his wrists. The belt is fastened around Peter’s slim thighs, clamping them together, allowing only a little flexion.

Tony, cross-legged and ever-merciful, doesn’t make Peter stare at the floor. Instead, he’s scooted more towards the center of the bed a bit so Peter can at least rest his head on a pillow, even as his legs hang over the edge of the mattress, hobbled.

Tony’s primary concern, though, is that Peter be able to signal ‘stop’ with his voice jammed and his hands restrained.

He’s decided Peter can just moan pointedly three times in quick succession. And, if for some reason that doesn’t penetrate Tony’s mind, he could shred his restraints with no problem at all.

That’s not an ideal set-up, and Tony _cares_. He does. He just doesn’t care as much as he normally does.

(Maybe he’s a _little_ angry, still.)

He uses plenty of lube, though, as he starts with two fingers off the bat, not bothering with much preamble. He pets at Peter, just a little, to see what he’s working with, what he can harp on.

It’s not every day that he can’t be interrupted.

“Mmm, you’re already a little soft, here, honeybunch. Not scared at all? What a mistake.”

“Fsk fv caks ya-nnng,” Peter says. Tony nods like he understands, knowing Peter can see him from the corner of his eye.

What he really wants is for Peter to close his eyes though, so he says as much as he circles Peter’s hole with his wet fingers. “Come on, it’ll help. I want you to see what I’m saying to you, what I’m doing to you, okay?”

Peter nods sideways against his pillow, breathing evening out as he smears drool along the weave of the pillowcase, already. He closes his eyes obediently.

“Okay, so picture this. You’re here, and you’re all trussed up. Figure this one out. You’re not even scared, Parker. Your slut hole is soft and open for me already. You got no survival instinct, kid.”

Tony punctuates his statement by fucking two fingers into Peter, who doesn’t exactly moan, but it’s a near thing. Tony’s glad, because he’s not sure Peter has noticed the modifications to the collar yet.

“Honestly, I’m starting to understand why Flash gets to have his way with your mind all the time. Do you give him more fight than you give me? Somehow I doubt it. You think you deserve it, is that it? The way you deserve this?”

He enjoys the thrum of Peter’s body around his fingers. Holding him like this, so still, is a bit like holding an instrument or a power tool; there’s life and purpose to him, but it’s ultimately sublimated by what Tony wants to use him for.

Tony also notices the way Peter clenches on his fingers at the word ‘deserve’.

“So smooth and easy for me, babe. Do you make it this easy for him? He riles you up, I know it, and it’s not your fault. He’s certainly the one to blame… right? S’not like you’re out there asking for his attention. _Right?_ ” he murmurs, making the last bit emphatic with both his voice and his movement in Peter’s ass.

Tony feels Peter’s smooth muscle with his middle and ring fingers on one hand, but sneaks the other hand down underneath to feel Peter’s lovely, full balls and the way they cringe.

“Maybe you were right, you snarky little twink,” he says, moving his fingers apart to increase the stretch. “Maybe this _is_ my fault, letting you go to class unsatisfied-” and Peter finally make some noise, but not enough to cover Tony’s next assertion, “... that must be it, huh? I don’t give you enough, and you see Flash in class and you _want_ him to talk down to you, _like Daddy does,_ is that it?”

“N-n-nksksks,” Peter gurgles, shaking his head as much as his position will allow.

“ _Fuck_ , Peter,” Tony breathes. “I’d spank you raw, but with the way you’ve had your head up your ass tonight, it might give you brain damage. Besides, I don’t wanna have to leave this tight little furrow you’ve got here. It’s loosening so nicely. It wants me to fuck it, I’m sure…”

And Peter finally lets out a real moan, low and loud. If the kid didn’t have such a laser-focus on their scene, Tony thinks, he might realize quicker that the noise-activated shock isn't working the same as it had been. But, as it is, Peter is too busy tensing and flexing, trying to get more of Tony's fingers inside. Tony keeps pumping into him, steady and not too quick, but Peter insists on trying to ‘help’.

Tony watches him before adding a third finger, wondering when the penny will drop, but adds, “... Or maybe you have the kind of filthy, hungry cunt that doesn't care? Maybe you don't care if Flash fucks you or I do. Maybe you don't care what he says to you or what you say to me. Maybe you're already spreading your legs for him and you come home grumpy because it's still not enough-”

But Tony stops his reverse psychology for a moment because _it's working_ and Peter is thrashing, desperate to communicate how wrong Tony is and to finally stand up for himself.

(And Tony's self-impressed, if he may say so himself. Oh, he _knows_ his boy.)

“Look at you, sweetheart. Won't start a fight, but you'll damn well finish it, won't you?” he coos.

Peter turns his face into the wet pillow and pants. If Tony leans over and looks, he’s sure he’d see Peter’s toes scrabbling in the carpet to lengthen his lean, trapped legs, and to fuck his own hole harder and harder on Tony’s fingers.

Tony removes them and leaves Peter gaping a little. Peter starts crying with desperation, and Tony shuffles him out of his lap. He rolls Peter over, making sure to keep him from tipping over the edge, and undoes the belt keeping Peter’s legs together.

“And you thought I was gonna hit you with this, _Christ._ Baby, you got me all wrong,” Tony purrs.

“T-t-t-nnnygghh,” Peter slurs, and Tony tosses the belt aside to grab the collar off Peter’s neck, yanking him up to unbuckle it. Peter’s still crying, and Tony wants to savor it up close.

“Hey, hey, hey, I got you. Did you need a break? Need to tell me something?”

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Peter croaks. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I let Flash get to me. I don’t want him, I _don’t_ , he just gets under my skin-”

“I know, sweetness; I was only teasing-”

“I only want you, you know that, right? Only want you,” Peter says into Tony’s neck.

His love is pushing his tear-stained face into Tony’s space, desperate for comfort and climbing over Tony to get it until they’re both sprawled awkwardly. Peter is practically smothering him.

“I know, Peter.”

Tony pets at him, shushing, and reaching around him to continue knuckling at Peter’s slick entrance, because, as he said, he knows his boy.

The only way the tears are gonna stop is after Tony makes Peter come all over himself.

(They've been down this road before, though not in a while.)

Sure enough, when Tony gets a hand in-between them to push his own sweats down past his hard cock and arch up, Peter meets him pound for pound with an erection of his own.

“Fuck, Peter. You say you're sorry, but I dunno if you really are…” Tony needles, even as he relaxes against the bed and wraps his hands around to jerk both of them with their cocks brushing together. Peter stutters above him.

“I am, I am, Tony, _please_. I'll. I can. I'll show you, wait,” he murmurs. Peter continues rambling as he goes for his own nightstand, coming up with one of the extra web-shooters.

Tony wants a resolution, though, so he pushes even as he sits up and strips his shirt over his head. “Is this you standing up to me, huh, little pup? You taking control now?”

“Shut up; you're gonna like this apology,” Peter says decisively.

Tony’s warm all over, happy that Peter seems to have been so positively affected by his goading. “Hmmm, big man now, giving orders, aren't you? A second ago you were begging with your little hole around my fingers-”

And that's when his right hand gets webbed to their bed frame.

( _Right for naughty_ , he remembers.)

Oh, okay. Fuck.


End file.
